What Music Reveals
by bcbdrums
Summary: My contribution to the 221B Challenge. Every chapter will follow a music-related theme. Insert my extremely long disclaimer and copyright info here. This is dedicated to everyone who supported me during the spam attack, and my music-loving friend KaizokuShojo. NOTE: On hiatus.
1. Berlioz

It had been a long day for Sherlock Holmes and myself. When I left him that morning, he informed me the current investigation would take him into the dregs of London, and that is where he spent the better part of his day.

During my rounds I came upon a rather difficult case of a child getting himself into some household poisons and had been at his bedside most of the night. It was a kind Providence more than my skill that spared his life and it was late evening when I finally returned to Baker Street.

Even before entering I could hear the violin, a trifle more furiously than was usual. He must not have met with much success.

He stopped playing when I entered the room and greeted me with an amiable but weary gaze.

"I'm sorry you've had no luck," I said and was surprised to find him incredulous.

"However did you know that?"

"You only play violent pieces when the solution to a case is eluding you."

"Quite so," he answered thoughtfully, "I had not realized that I developed habits in my playing."

"Indeed. What was the piece anyway? One of your own?"

"No," he smiled, "It is called 'Dreams of a Witches Sabbath'."

"Oh…" I thought for a moment, not familiar with the work, "Verdi?"

"Berlioz."


	2. Boys

I yawned and stretched myself as the orchestra paused in its practice to take some new direction. Next to me in the front row, Sherlock Holmes roused himself from the somnolent mood he often lapsed into when we attended these rehearsals and looked up to find the cause of the disturbance of his peace.

"I wonder that they do not hire a new conductor. This feeble fellow is hardly fit to be standing let alone directing," he groused.

"It is a brilliant interpretation of the piece," I defended the man, "And her works are no easy task to master."

"Her? The composer is not a woman."

"Surely it is Fanny Mendelssohn."

"Nonsense, it is Felix Mendelssohn. That anyone would perform a composition by a woman is preposterous."

"Women have every right to compose as men," I said with some fire, "And I am certain the composer is Fanny. Her works have that hint of exoticism that her brother's lack."

"No no, it is Felix. I recognize a motive from one of his Lieder."

"It is Fanny," I insisted.

"It is Felix."

"Fanny!"

Suddenly another voice cut into our argument. I looked toward the stage to see the decrepit conductor glaring at us. I held up my hand to stem Holmes' retort just as the old man let loose his fury.

"Boys!"


	3. Brahms

I tossed my hat and gloves upon the sideboard as I entered the room, disturbing a teacup with my action. I watched it spin erratically and dance along the edge of the narrow counter before it finally fell. I did not much care, as I had far more significant matters with which to occupy my mind.

Apparently, so did Watson as he did not stir from his reading when the teacup shattered. So wrapped up in the book was he that he did not even acknowledge my call of his name, which is typically enough to rouse any man from his doings.

Curious as to what could so distract him, I moved behind the armchair where he sat so absorbed, and leaning down I began to read over his shoulder.

"…_for two years messages were ferried to and fro. Johannes' love blossomed to its fullest, and Clara welcomed his affection, but both loved Robert too well to abuse his trust…"_

I sneered and hastily retreated to my desk, but I had inadvertently brought Watson out of his stupor and he asked me if I enjoyed what I had read.

"Not at all!" I carped, "For a man to covet the wife of another is utterly execrable!" I turned to my papers, muttering all the while, "And I used to like Brahms…"


	4. Bow

His eyes are focused on the strings, his hand precise. His slender frame moves with the rhythm of the tune he plays. I watch his face.

First there is subdued concentration, as he mentally builds the theory and structure of his impromptu composition.

Then his eyes rove over various objects in the room, each one inspiring a new chord. A rare and bright smile graces his features and light airy tones accompany the portrait of his long deceased foe. Then a shift to dissonance as he peers grudgingly at the drawer that once held the deadly and enslaving stimulant.

And all the while, the contour remains true, the melody rising with tension and then relaxing in a delicate but adept sequence. Surely this man missed his calling.

As his gaze returns to the instrument, his eyelids become heavy, the passion of the music overwhelming him. In this his soul is betrayed, for at that moment the deepest of emotions play over his ethereal face. Fervor, languor, joy, grief; those and so many more are expressed in the song and so mirrored in his countenance.

The piece reaches its dramatic zenith and then falls rapidly to the final cadence, concluding my glimpse into the heart of my dearest friend. I brush a tear from my face as he gently lowers the bow.


	5. Butterfly

"No."

"But I—"

"You know that I dislike his style. Why would you even consider purchasing tickets for Puccini?" he said, stuffing his pipe defiantly. I withdrew a little at my friend's flat refusal of my gift.

"What is there against Puccini? I find his works sublime and in excellent form."

"You are wrong, my dear Watson. Puccini has forsaken form and shifted his mind toward foreign frontiers. His compositions are far too exotic to be called proper music."

"I thought you enjoyed exploring the exotic; you relished it enough to leave England for three years." He stiffened slightly at this.

"The observance of a foreign culture should be done first hand, _not_ through music," he said emphatically.

"I do believe you might enjoy it if you gave it a chance. To my knowledge you have only ever heard _one_ of Puccini's works, and years ago I might add. Perhaps his current style will be less romantic and more to your liking."

When he did not immediately respond I knew I had won. There had been no case for three weeks and I knew the inactivity would eventually drive him mad if he did not find some distraction.

"I suppose it will not be too terribly ridiculous; the man cannot be a complete fool. Which opera is it?"

"Madame Butterfly."


	6. Bach

_A/N: Happy birthday Kai!_

* * *

I sighed contentedly, absorbing the sonorous final chord of Contrapunctus 1. I glanced at Holmes with a smile, but was surprised to see him frowning and tapping his fingertips upon his knees.

Though we sat in the front row, people often conversed during rehearsals, so it was with little trepidation that I whispered a question to him about his reaction.

"It's all wrong," he whispered back harshly, "that violinist has no sense of synergism."

His eyes darkened as he listened to the man in question give direction, and I couldn't restrain a gasp as he rose and strode toward the stage.

"No, Holmes!" I hissed as he marched up the steps and audaciously insulted the virtuoso. I watched in horror as the two began to argue, gesturing fanatically at the manuscript.

I buried my face in my hands. This was possibly my friend's most disconcerting of eccentricities, and sadly a frequently recurring event.

The bright introductory interval of the fugue caused me to raise my eyes. Another gasp escaped me, for now Holmes was playing with the quartet, the other man fuming silently behind him.

He had reason to, as the piece actually sounded better with my friend on the part. He glanced at me and I smirked. There was no greater authority than Sherlock Holmes on the subject of Bach.


	7. Bailiwick

_A/N: In answer to my own challenge: use the word bailiwick in a 221B. AND my contribution to the Dr. McCoy inspired drabbles. Long live DeForest Kelly._

* * *

The notes sounded from my instrument with a rapidity few could rival. But there was no alacrity in my bowing, no life in the melody.

I cast the violin aside in disgust and resigned myself to the cocaine for relief from my ennui.

But reaching for the bottle on the mantelpiece, I was distracted by a sudden disturbance from the corner of my eye.

My friend Watson had moved to the table where the manuscript lay. He pushed my violin aside with less delicacy than befits a doctor and was now engrossed in the sheets from Paganini I had been butchering moments before.

Curious, I left the bottle and went to his side.

"Was it really that bad?"

"Well Holmes, I'm a doctor, not a musician. But even a man with no culture would have been less than impressed with that caprice. And I wonder sometimes, why you choose such dreadfully titled works."

"What is the title?"

"Devil's Laughter."

"Well if that doesn't inspire failure," I mumbled, "But the title is a mere coincidence. It is the technical difficulty that draws me to a composition." He gave me a curious look.

"It does not appear any more difficult than your other music?" I smiled and tried not to sound overly denigrating.

"Violin music, I am afraid Watson, is not your bailiwick."


	8. Ballade

I gingerly lifted my bow from the strings, the ensuing silence as tense as the wait for thunder after a flash of lightning.

And thunder did come, for as my attention shifted from the manuscript to my instructor, I nearly became ill from the displeasure upon his face.

"What on earth was that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"That is not Fauré." I was decidedly confused.

"This is the piece you gave me last week."

"But you are playing it wrong." I stiffened at the blatant insult.

"In what way, pray tell?"

"You play with indifference." My eyes widened in shock. Nothing was more important to me than music.

"I assure you, I have practiced diligently and taken utmost care to be accurate with every note and rhythm."

"And so you were. But technical accuracy is a mere trifle. The essence of music is not its machinations. It is the way we give of ourselves when we play. We are the music, Sherlock. _You_ are the music."

Suddenly I could see how cruelly I had treated my instrument.

At his nod, I raised my bow again, but this time closed my eyes. Within moments, I understood the greatness of Bach and Salieri. It was passion.

I heard my instructor sigh with delectation, and I smiled as finally my soul conducted the ballade.


	9. Borne

It was an odd feeling, having one's face flushed while the eyes are throbbing. But that is what the combination of anger and exhaustion produces.

And this combination is created by wailing violin partials, durating for half the night.

I paced my room for another minute or so before finally storming down to the sitting room, intent on either throwing the violin in the fire or Holmes into the street.

But I stayed my fury when I saw Holmes's face. He looked worse than me, in terms of insomnia. And his words confirmed it.

"Forgive me Watson, but I cannot sleep. I had thought some musical introspection would still my restlessness, but apparently I was wrong."

I realized that some dark thought was plaguing him, and turned to go. But he stopped me with a sharp cry.

"No! Stay. Please."

I moved to sit across from him, studying his bright, bleary eyes. I closed my own as he continued the retrogressive harmony, which suddenly sounded beautiful…

* * *

I suddenly awoke as the sound of the violin ceased. I glanced at Holmes. He was asleep and smling in his armchair, the violin and bow slowly slipping from his hands.

I relaxed at the sight, his last melody still playing in my head. Drifting off again, I reveled in the peace music had borne.


	10. Been

_A/N: The tops of Stradivarius violins are made of spruce..._

_For Kai._

* * *

If not for the clock-chimes marking the turn of each hour, I would have believed that Baker Street existed in its own private dimension on that memorable Spring night, when the world's greatest detective and martyr to crime returned to life.

I sat in my old dusty chair, a permanent grin on my face as Holmes paced the room, fighting nostalgia as was his way. But the spark that reached his eyes as they lighted on every object in our little world brought him more and more back to life.

But perhaps the most wonderful moment came when he stopped pacing, and knelt before his violin case.

His hands shook with repressed emotion as he opened it and gingerly removed the instrument. He tuned it with more delicacy than I had ever witnessed, and rosined the bow with calm but deliberate purpose. I was transfixed as he continued the ritual, testing each string's tension and adjusting the pad upon his shoulder.

The first notes were slow, sustained and mellow as he pulled the bow effortlessly across the strings. Then, pure and bright as his confidence grew and his fingers flew across the ebony board. But the glorious rhapsody culminated for me when I heard his breath catch and saw a tear hit the polished spruce wood.

How long had it been?


	11. Boat

_A/N: Another excerpt from my unlikely-to-be-seen novel._

* * *

A cool breeze… Whispy curtains… Moonlight falling over my still, sleeping form.

Was it a dream? I couldn't tell. Still, I let the night envelop me, and suddenly felt as if I was floating. But not…weightless. More like I was drugged, or had a concussion. Puzzling.

And then, before me I could see a light.

In this dream-like haze, I could feel myself moving toward it. Closer and closer it felt, but I could see no defined forms.

Then suddenly, I was surrounded by a golden aura, and the sweetest of music was filling my ears. Strain after strain of rising and falling scales and arpeggios, and things I could not begin to describe. All I knew was how glad my soul was in hearing it, and I knew I could live forever in the blessed serenity this music provided.

And then, clarity. It was a violin playing. A familiar one. I whirled around and saw the one man I thought never to see again.

"Watson!"

I sat up.

I was in bed, alone, on a boat back to England. Holmes was gone. Dead, at the bottom of the Reichenbach falls. I would never hear his violin play again.

I lay down, and listened to the wind whip harshly through the porthole, and fell asleep to the rocking of the boat.


	12. Bach 2

I stumbled down the stairs to the sitting room, drawn by a sound that reminded me of an echoing foghorn. I was not surprised to find Sherlock Holmes lazily dragging his expensive bow across the strings of his Stradivarius.

"Won't that damage it?" I asked between yawns.

"Oh…Watson I cannot sleep!"

"Have you tried?"

"Of course I have tried! I have tried everything, but my brain is far too active," he complained.

"Well…you could make use of the time, rather than pestering others with your sleeplessness. What about some chemical research?"

"Boring."

"Cataloguing more tobacco ash?"

"Completed."

"Well…can you read yourself to sleep?"

"I have read all the literature in this house that is _worth_ reading," he said with an annoyed glance. He sighed, and continued his rather un-musical pursuits. A thought occurred to me.

"If you must scrape against that fiddle," I received a mean glare, "why not play something worth hearing?"

"Such as?" he said boredly.

"Contrapunctus XIV?"

He straightened up. "Contrapunctus…_XIV?_"

"Yes, why not?" I said innocently.

"Watson. You know that work is unfinished. I will not play a piece that abruptly ends in the middle of the third section!"

"Pity. There must be…_some_ permutation that would reveal how to complete the piece…?"

Five minutes later I was drifting back to sleep as Holmes attempted to best Bach.

* * *

_A/N: As a friend of mine says (a few friends, actually) sometimes inspiration strikes from real life, and you end up with masterpieces... *sigh* This was better before I trimmed it to 221 words...lol. Ah well, you tell me ;)_

_Contrapunctus XIV is the last work in the Art of Fugue, by Bach. The last piece was unfinished. Possible reasons why are still being debated by scholars._


	13. Burned out

_A/N: For Kai... (isn't everything? XD)_

* * *

It was night. The fire was popping noisily, but to my ears it was dim. The chairs, the sofa, the papers and the tobacco smoke were all distant to my mind as I played, seated on the bearskin rug before the hearth. The heat was intense. It stimulated my mind.

I let my bow gently slide across the strings of my violin, enraptured by the motion. So fluid, so constant… If only the threads of the case were so constant, but alas! They were unraveled, frayed… But I knew…I knew that they must connect somehow. The solution was there, if only I could draw it out!

But which threads connected to which? So many colors to this case…so many colors to the melody.

I moved my bow with more vigor against the strings, and in my mind tested each thread against the other, weaving a myriad of tapestries and mosaics, looking for the one where every fact…every sound merged together in perfect harmony.

And then…then! I found it! And now…now…

I was suddenly aware of how hot that rug was beneath me, its thick coarse hairs pressing against my tight, coiled body.

I slowed my playing, letting the impromptu piece fall to a calm conclusion as I fell back and lay upon the floor…the fire, my hands and mind…burned-out.

* * *

_A/N: Apparently hyphenated words count as only one. So I'll take that loophole ;)_

_But, there's a follow-up to this ficlet. A pic, drawn by Kai, which inspired this. It's not a complete story without the pic. So...here's the link. You'll have to insert the proper punctuation, since the site doesn't allow url's in fics..._

_http (colon slash slash) kaizokushojo (dot) deviantart (dot) com (slash) art (slash) Holmes-doodle-Psy-80110930  
_


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